WHERE MILDRED GOT NEXT
There's nothin' wins out surer in this town of New York than puttin' up
a good front. If you've got the fur coat and the goggles on your cap,
you can walk or ride on a transfer, and folks'll take it as a cinch that
your bubble's back in the garage bein' fitted with a new set of
hundred-dollar tires. Why, just the smell of benzine on a suit you've had
out to the cleaners will give 'em the dream, if you throw your chest out
right.
Look at the way Mildred has us goin'. Maybe you don't know about
Mildred. Say, I'll bet if you met up with her on Fift'-ave. you'd hold
your breath till she got by and wonder whether she was a Vanderbilt or
one of the Goulds! But she floats into the Corrugated Trust offices more
or less reg'lar every day, just the same, and does her little stunt on
the typewriter at so much per. Honest, when I sees her sailin' in
mornin's, with all her swell drygoods on, I'm just as liable as not to
half break my neck openin' the door for her. That's what I did the
first time I saw her, when I was new on the gate.
"This way, lady," says I, and when she pikes right by and heads for the
cloakroom I almost has a fit.
Maybe there's some hot ones down around Broad-st. that drives to
business in cabs and pounds the keys durin' office hours; but for a
genuine, mercerized near silk we stand ready to back Mildred against the
field. She'd have an expert guessin', Mildred would. "Miss Morgan" is
the way she figures on the payroll; but that never sounded rich enough
for me.
It was the first week I was there that I begun to get a line on Mildred.
One day the old man calls me in and hands me a letter that's been put on
his desk for him to sign. He was plum color, Old Hickory was, so mad he
could have chewed a file.
"Boy," says he, "take this into the main office, find out who M. M. is,
and bring her in here. Anybody that can spell in that fashion I want to
take a good look at."
Think of the shock I gets when Piddie tells me them letters stand for
Mildred Morgan.
"Lady," says I, "I hates to say it, but the boss is waitin' to hand out
a call-down to you. Don't you go to gettin' scared stiff, though; for the
first cussword he lets go of I'll chuck a chair at him."
The smile I gets for that would have been worth half a dozen jobs. I was
lookin' for her to go white and begin bitin' her upper lip, like they
usually does; but she ain't that kind--not on your nameplate! She just
peels off the sleeve protectors, sets her side combs in firm, gives her
face a dab or so with the rabbit's foot, and starts along after me, with
that new antelope walk of hers, as easy and pleased as if she'd been
asked to come to the front and pour tea.
And she's got the costume the part calls for, mind you! They're the only
clothes of the kind I ever see wore into this buildin'. I couldn't say
what they was made of; but I know they're the button-up-the-back style,
and that they stick to her as if they'd been put on by a paper-hanger. I
guess you'd call Mildred a 1911 model. Anyway, she seems to bulge in the
right places; though how anyone so long-waisted as that can get
themselves into such a rig without callin' for help is somethin' I
passes up.
Well, I tows her into the boss's office, feelin' as mean as a welsher.
The old man has settled back in his chair, a cigar pointin' out of one
corner of his mouth, and a letter in one fist. While I'm gone he's run
across another, worse than the first, by the marks he's made on it, and
he's got to the point where a thermometer slipped down the back of his
neck would go off like a cap pistol.
"See here!" says he, growlin' it out grouchy, without lookin' up. "I'd
like to have you run your eye over that, and then tell me where in
thunder you learned to spell such s-u-t-c-h!"
"Why," says she, "I always spell it that way; don't you?"
"Don't I!" roars the old man. "Do you take me for a----"
Then he looks up. Well, say, you talk about your fadin' sunsets! Nothin'
I ever see beat the way the boss lost his crushed raspb'rry face tint
and bleached out salmon pink. "Why--why--er--are you sure this is some
of your work, young woman?"
"Oh yes, indeed," says she, kind of gurgly and aristocratic and as sweet
as pie, "that's mine. But you've made so many horrid marks on it that I
shall have to do it all over again."
"Yes," says he, "I'm afraid that's so. But we have a way here, you know,
of spelling explicit with a C instead of an S."
"Ruhlly?" says she. "How odd!"
"It's one of our fads, too," goes on the old man, "not to spell
Corrugated g-a-i-t-e-d. We've simplified it by leaving out the I. Of
course, we don't expect you to learn all these things at once; but pick
'em up as fast as you can. That--that's all. Thank you very much,
Miss--er----What's the name?"
"Morgan," says she, "Mildred Morgan."
"Ah," says the boss, "very much obliged, Mil--er--Miss Morgan," and
before I could get to the door he has hopped up and opened it for her.
Then he turns around and sees me standin' there grinnin'. "Torchy," says
he, "are there any more like that around the shop?"
"None that I ever saw," says I.
"Thank Heaven!" says he. "Send in one of the other kind."
"Want a real ripe one?" says I.
He does. And say, we got plenty of them. I picks out one with washed-out
eyes, front teeth that sticks out, and no shape to speak of. She could
make the typewriter do a double shuffle, though, and there couldn't
anybody around the place sling out words faster'n she could take 'em
down on her pad, or any she couldn't spell right the first crack. The
old man fixes it that she's to go over Mildred's work with an ink eraser
before it comes to him.
If Mildred knew about it, she never let on. Nothin' much bothered her.
She'd come sailin' in any old time durin' the forenoon, lookin' as
han'some as a florist's window and actin' as if she never heard of such
a thing as a time clock. Piddie tackles her only once.
"Miss Morgan," says he, "business begins here at nine o'clock promptly."
"How absurd!" says Mildred, and Piddie don't get over the shock for an
hour.
About the second week all hands took a vote that Mildred wa'n't much of
a success as a typewriter artist and that she ought to be fired. The old
man put it up to Mr. Robert, and Mr. Robert shoves it back at him. Then
they both loaded it onto Piddie and cleared out. When they come back
they asks him if he's done it.
"Well," says he, colorin' up, "not exactly."
Come to make him own up, he'd gone at the job so easy and had been so
polite about it that Miss Morgan has time to head him off with a strike
for more pay, and before he can back out he's promised to see what can
be done.
"Couldn't you talk to her, Mr. Ellins?" says he.
"Great Scott, no!" says the boss. "Tell her she's raised, and let it go
at that."
For awhile, though, Mildred cost the firm a lot more money than her
salary, if you reckon up as worth anything the time a lot of two-by-four
ink-slingers spent makin' goo-goo eyes at her. It was a losin' game all
around. Mildred didn't seem to be pinin' for any such honors, and after
they got well acquainted with the fact that she wouldn't stand for lunch
invites, or bids to the theater, and didn't want to be walked home with
by a perfect gent, they let up on that foolishness. It leaves 'em dizzy,
though. There's pinheads on our gen'ral office staff who believes they
never missed breakin' a heart before, and they can't figure out just
what's the matter with the combination.
There was others, too, that couldn't place Mildred, until some one hints
that maybe she's a sure enough swell whose folks had gone broke, and
that she's picked out a typewriter job as a sort of trapdoor that would
let her down out of sight and keep the meal ticket renewed.
After that Mildred is as much of a myst'ry as why folks live in
Brooklyn. We was all wise to the main proposition, though, and it was
funny to hear 'em all sayin' that they'd known it right along. Kind of
set us up some, too, havin' a real ex-ice cutter like her right on the
floor with us. All the other key pounders, that had been givin' her the
stary eye at first, flops around and uses the sugar shaker. There wasn't
anything they wouldn't do for her, and they takes turns holdin' her
jacket, so's to get a peek at the trademark on the inside of the collar.
But Piddie is the most pleased of any. He thinks he's right to home
among carriage folks, and every time she comes near he bows and scrapes
and begins to shoot off the "Aw, I'm suah's" and the "Don'tcher know's,"
until you'd think he was talkin' through a mouthful of hot breakfast
food.
"Chee!" says I to him. "You act like you thought this was a five o'clock
tea."
"I trust," says he, "I know a lady when I see one, and that I know how
to treat her too."
"That's so," says I. "Too bad you wa'n't on the stage, Piddie, in one of
them 'Me lu'd, the carriage waits' parts."
That gives me a cue, and the next time she sends me for supplies I says
to him, "Mr. Piddie," says I, "the Lady Mildred presents her compliments
and says she wants a new paste brush."
Gets him wild, that does; so I sticks to it. The others hears it and
picks it up too, and she wa'n't called anything but Lady Mildred from
that on. First thing I knew I'd said it to her face; but she never so
much as looks surprised. You'd thought she'd been called Lady Mildred
all her life.
"Who knows?" says Piddie. "Perhaps she has."
Honest, we was makin' up all kinds of pipe dreams about her, and
believin' 'em as we went along. There was no findin' out from her what
was so and what she wa'n't. She never gets real chummy with anyone; but
keeps us jollied along about so much. It was dead easy. All she had to
do was to throw a smile our way, and we was tickled for a week. Wasn't
anyone around the place needed so much waitin' on as her; but no one
ever minds. Gen'rally there was two or three on the jump for her, and
others willin' to be.
Course, that don't include Mr. Robert. He seems to think Lady Mildred
was some kind of a joke; but, then, I expect he sees so many stunners
like her every night, knockin' around at dinner parties and such, that
he gets tired lookin' at 'em. I'd been carryin' it against him, though,
and maybe that's what put it into my nut to get so gay with Louie.
Louie's the gent in the leather leggin's and north-pole outfit that
comes around after Mr. Robert every night with the machine. Say, it's a
reg'lar rollin' bay window, that car of Mr. Robert's! I wouldn't mind
havin' one of that kind taggin' around after me. But if I was pickin' a
shover I'd pass Louie by. He wears his nose too high in the air and is
too friendly with himself to suit me. There's a lot of them honk-honk
boys just like him; but he's the only one I ever has a chance to get
real confidential with. It's like this:
Mr. Robert says to me, "Torchy, if I'm not back by five o'clock, you may
tell Louie when he comes that he needn't wait."
"Sure thing," says I.
Then, when Mr. Robert don't show up at closin' time, I chases down to
the curb and sings out, "Hey, Frenchy, you tip huntin' ex-waiter! It's
back to the garage for yours! And say! After you've run your old coal
cart into the shed you can go let yourself out as a sign for a fur
store. Ah, that's right. Nothin' doin' here. Skidoo!"
Always makes me feel better after I've handed Louie one like that--his
ears turns such a lovely pink, specially when there's a crowd around.
When I has time to chew it over I can think up some beauts. But this
night I was goin' to tell you about I didn't have any warnin' at all.
Mr. Robert was right in the middle of a heart-to-heart talk with a
Pittsburg man, when five o'clock comes and the word is sent up that
Louie has came.
"Tell him to come back in about half an hour," says Mr. Robert to me.
"Repeat at five-thirt'," says I, sliding out for the elevator.
It was an elegant afternoon,--for pneumonia,--slush and rain and ice-box
zephyrs gallopin' up and down the street. Louie didn't look as though he
was enjoyin' it any too much, for all his furs. I was just turnin' up my
collar for a dash across the sidewalk and back, when out comes Lady
Mildred in a raincoat that was a dream and carryin' a silver-handled
umbrella such as you don't find on the bargain counters. And then I
gets my funny thought.
"Carriage for you, miss," says I, grabbin' the rain tent and hoistin'
it. "Right this way, miss."
Say, she's a dead game sport, Mildred is. Never stopped to ask any fool
questions; but prances right out to the car, just as though she'd
expected it to be there.
"Take the lady home, and be back after Mr. Robert in half an hour,
Louie," says I, jerkin' open the door and handin' her in.
It was about then that I almost had heart failure. Stowed away in the
further corner, as comf'table as if he was at the club, was Benny. I
forget what the rest of his name is; Mr. Robert never calls him anything
but Benny. They're chums from way back,--travel in the same push, live
on the same block, and has the same ideas about killin' time. But that's
as far as the twin description goes. Benny looks and acts about as much
like Mr. Robert as a cream puff looks like a ham sandwich. All Benny
ever does is put on more fat and grow more cushions on the back of his
neck. He's about five foot three, both ways, one of these rolypoly boys,
with dimples all over him, pink and white cheeks, and baby-blue eyes.
Oh, he's cute, Benny is; but the bashfullest forty-four fat that ever
carried a cane, a reg'lar Mr. Shy Ann kind of a duck. He has a lisp
when he talks too, and that makes him seem cuter'n ever.
About twice a week he drifts up to the brass gate and says to me, "Thay,
thonny, whereth Bob?" Makes my mouth pucker up like I'd been suckin' a
lemon, just to hear him. And if he sees one of the girls lookin'
sideways at him he'll dodge behind a post.
There he was, though, and there was Mildred pilin' in alongside of him.
She didn't give any sign of backin' out, and it was too late for me to
hedge; so I ups and does the honors.
"Mr. Benny," says I, "Miss Morgan."
"Oh, I--I thay," splutters Benny, makin' a move to bolt, "perhapth I'd
better----"
"Forget it!" says I, slammin' the door. "Ding, ding, Louie! Get a move
on! If you don't fetch back here by five-thirt' you lose your job. See?"
Frenchy didn't need any urgin', though, and he has the wheels goin'
round in no time at all. I watched the car for a couple of blocks and
didn't see anything of Benny jumpin' out of the window; so I reckons
that he's too scared to make the break. I had a picture of him,
squeezin' himself up against the side of the tonneau, lookin' at his
thumbs, and turnin' all kinds of colors.
"If it don't give him apoplexy, maybe it'll do him good," thinks I.
It was funny while it lasted; but when I thinks of what Mr. Robert'll
say when the tale is doped out to him. I has a chill. First off I
thought I'd go up and write out my resignation; but then I remembers how
long it is since I've had the sport of bein' fired, and I makes up my
mind to see the thing through.
I was lookin' to be called up on the carpet first thing next mornin',
but it don't come. Mr. Robert never says a word all day long, nor the
next, and by that time the thing was gettin' on my nerves. Then Benny
bobs up, as usual. I has my eye peeled from the minute he opens the
door. He don't look warlike or anything; but you never can tell about
these fat men, so when he hits the gate I dodges behind the water
cooler.
"Wha--w'ath the matter, thonny?" says he.
"G'wan!" says I.
"Ithn't Bob in?" says he.
"Go on in and tell Mr. Robert, if you want to," says I; "but don't look
for any openin' to sit on me. No pancake act for mine!"
He just grins at that; but goes on into the office without makin' a
single pass at me. Course, I was sure the riot act was due inside of an
hour. But never a word. Nor Mildred don't have anything to say, either.
It was like waitin' for a blast that don't go off.
Things went on that way for a couple of weeks, and I was forgettin'
about it, when Piddie tells me one mornin' that Mildred's up and quit
and nobody knows why. About an hour after that Mr. Robert sends for me.
"Torchy," says he, "I'm tracing out a mystery, and as you seem to know
about everything that's going on, I'm going to ask you to help me out."
"Ah, say," says I, "w'at's the use stringin' out the agony? Benny's
squealed, ain't he?"
"No," says Mr. Robert. "That's the point. Benny hasn't. All I've been
able to get out of him is that a short time ago he met a very charming
young woman--in my car."
"That's right," says I. "It was me put her in."
"Ah!" says Mr. Robert. "Now we're getting somewhere."
"Oh, you've hit the trail," says I.
"Well," says he, "who was she?"
"Why," says I, "the Lady Mildred."
"Whe-e-e-ew!" says Mr. Robert, through his front teeth. "Not the one
that spells such with a T?"
"Ah, chee!" says I. "What's the odds how she spells, so long as she's
got Lillian Russell in the back row? I didn't know your fat friend was
in the car, anyway, and I thinks Frenchy might as well be cartin' her
home in the rain as blockin' traffic on some side street. So I just
loads her in and gives Louie the word. She never knew but what you had
sense enough to do it yourself. Course, it was a fresh play for me to
make; but I'll stand for it, and if Benny's feelin's was hurt, or yours
was, you got an elegant show to take it out on me. Come on! Get out the
can and the string!"
But you can't hustle Mr. Robert along that way. When he gets his
programme laid out there ain't any use to try any broad jumps. He wants
to know all about Mildred, who she is, where she comes from, and what's
her class.
"You can take it from me," says I, "that she's a star. She's been up in
the top bunch too, I guess; anyone can see that. But so long as she's
jumped the job, where's the sense in lookin' up her pedigree now?"
"Well," says Mr. Robert, "I am still more or less interested. You see,
she and Benny are to be married next month."
"Honest?" says I.
"I have it from Benny himself," says he.
"Did Benny tell you how he worked up the nerve to make such a swift job
of it?" says I.
He hadn't. Near as I could make out, Benny hadn't told much of anything.
"Well," says I, "he's picked a winner, ain't he?"
"That," says Mr. Robert, "is something I mean to find out."
And say, if you ever see that jaw of Mr. Robert's, you'll know he did.
And she wa'n't an Astor or a Gould in disguise. She was just plain Miss
Morgan, that had come on with her mother from Kansas City, or Omaha, or
somewhere out there; put in six or eight months in a swell dressmaker's
shop; learned how to make herself the kind of clothes that look like
ready money; shuffled off her corn-belt accent; and then broke into the
typewritin' game while she waited for somethin' better to turn up.
"And Benny was it, wa'n't he?" says I to Mr. Robert.
"With your help, Torchy," says he, "it appears that he was."
"Well," says I, "he needed the push, all right, didn't he!"
Fired? Me? Ah, quit your kiddin'! Why, they're tickled to death now, all
of 'em. They're beginnin' to find out that Mildred's quite a girl, even
if she ain't got a lot of fat-wad folks back of her.
And say, w'atcher think! Benny comes around here the other day wearin' a
broad grin, lugs me out to his tailor's to have me taped for a whole
outfit of glad rags, and says I've got to be one of the ushers at the
weddin'. Wouldn't that sting you?